


Toronto, 2011

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dark, Dubious Consent, Future Fic, M/M, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-24
Updated: 2009-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-one and living in Toronto, Luke's doing his best to make a life for himself. A chance meeting with Sylar turns everything on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toronto, 2011

**Author's Note:**

> According the Heroes timeline, it's still 2007 in S3, so in 2011, Luke would be 21. Covenant House is Toronto's largest homeless shelter for teens. Many thanks to aurilly, who encouraged me with oodles and oodles of helpful notes! ♥

In 2007, Luke crosses the US-Canada border at Niagara Falls, driving a stolen car with a fake ID over the Rainbow Bridge. The scab at his temple has nearly healed and he can't think Sylar's name without following it with a curse. He ditches the car the first chance he gets and loses himself among the street kids of Toronto.

Luke's an accomplished pickpocket, an expert shoplifter and a pretty fast talker. With a sad look and a snivel, he can easily wheedle five bucks from every motherly-looking woman who catches his eye. At night, he sleeps in the backroom of a condemned house, keeping himself to himself, just another delinquent youth in a crowd of nameless, faceless squatters.

In 2008, all hell breaks loose. With a CNN microphone shoved under his nose, Senator Nathan Petrelli comes clean about the special people living in their midst. He delivers a scathing, and exclusive, exposé on Homeland Security's activities, on the people who'd done nothing but be born different and the way their government punished them for it. In 48 hours, he's disappeared, presumed assassinated, but the damage is done. The UN launches a taskforce and the Vatican issues a plea for tolerance as heads of state across the globe condemn the US while hastily covering up their own attempts to quash the growing population of specials. Canada opens its doors to the evolved people of the world and declares an amnesty for those who need it.

But Luke doesn't care. His time with Sylar has cured him of what lingering capacity to trust his father hadn't taken with him when he left. Luke has bigger problems than the marches for equal rights that seem to tramp down every major street. He's cold. He's lonely. He's eighteen with no money, no family and no prospects. He heats an empty tin can so the metal sparks and glows red hot, and presses his fingers to it until he screams. With the tips of his fingers charred, Luke walks into the Covenant House homeless shelter, one block over from city hall. For the first time in more than a year, he sleeps in a real bed, and eats food he didn't steal. No one needs know that this Luke Campbell is _that_ Luke Campbell that Luke left behind in a boarded up Big Jim's Franks and Fries.

In 2009, enough people assume Luke's a Canadian that he really becomes one. His fingerprints can't be reconstructed and he blames an abusive father he'd rather forget for why he won't tell anyone where he's from. He's issued a new SIN to replace the one he never had. His hands have healed and if he wants to keep his bed, he has to get a job. He follows a bunch of guys to a construction site just south of Main Street and watches the men at work.

"Hey!" he yells through the chain link fence at a stocky guy with a clipboard. "Hey! You the boss?"

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

"You gotta job for me?"

"You!?" The man laughs and Luke bristles. He looks Luke up and down, and still chuckling, shrugs. "You know what, kid? Why the hell not?"

By 2010, Luke's saved enough money to move into his own apartment. It's small and it's dingy and it's on the wrong side of town, but it's his. Joe Matthews of Matthews Construction co-signs his lease.

***

In 2011, the drive out to the suburbs is long. Luke rides shotgun in Joe's truck. They pass by pretty little houses on pretty little streets, all neatly mowed yards and rose bush borders. One day, Luke thinks, he's gonna live somewhere like this, in a cookie cutter house with a swing set out back and a nine-to-five job. He thinks that maybe, if he leads a normal life, in a normal house with a normal wife, then just maybe, he'll finally be normal too.

The site is a new build on an old street. Property prices are rising and the middle class is moving in. Everyone wants to get in on the ground floor in urban gentrification, and some enterprising gangbanger, more businessman than thug, has hired Joe's crew to raze the ghetto and leave a cul-de-sac rising from the ashes. Luke and Joe are the last to arrive and they pull up to find the crew lazing around the backhoe, chain smoking and drinking coffee, as over the bright orange tape that fences off the construction site, what's left of the old neighbourhood has gathered to watch.

Luke tightens the tool belt that hangs off his hips; it's too wide by far and the buckle notches in a hole he had to punch himself. He starts pulling equipment from the flat bed of the truck, concentrating on the clang of metal on metal to better ignore the taunts: "Nice of you to show, Campbell. How much ass did you have to kiss to swing a ride with the boss? Or do I mean, how much cock did you suck?"

Luke squeezes his fists inside the thick work gloves he wears, and reminds himself that scorched polyester against his palms isn't worth it just to prove a dime a dozen dickhead a lesson. No one stays in Joe's crew for long; they end up back in prison or running drugs or, even, once in a while, moving on to better things. It's only Luke who's stuck around long enough to enjoy the benefits that come from loyalty. Naturally, the guys ride him hard for it; everyone always jostling for a better place in the pack. But, this jackass will soon be in a cell somewhere and another slack-jawed, buck toothed jackass will take his place. They'll have this same petty pissing match again and it isn't worth Luke's time to prove himself to every macho meathead who comes along.

"Luke, c'mere." Joe gestures him over to where he's standing by the idle backhoe. Luke shoulders past the other men, earning cat calls for his double quick obedience.

"_Pussy!_" someone growls, muffled in a cough.

"What d'you think?" Joe asks. Even four years on, Luke hasn't quite lost that flutter of pleasure at the knowledge that there's someone, _anyone_, who wants to listen to his opinion.

He toes the ground thoughtfully, the steel tip of his work boot dragging patterns in the frost on the grass.

"Too cold," the driver spits, leaning on the front bucket of the backhoe.

Joe looks to Luke. He nods; it's true. Luke flinches as Joe swears and stamps his feet. He's just the messenger, and Joe's raging at god and the ground and the snow clouds obscuring the sun rather than at them, but still, Luke wants to lash out at the unkempt man chewing tobacco, who'd so casually ruined his boss's mood.

"The client's on a deadline," Joe hisses. "We need to get this done."

"Shoulda called us in here a week ago when the weather was good. Now…" The driver shrugs. "…gotta wait for this frost to clear. Health and safety."

Joe pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes scrunched shut as he frowns. The rest of the crew are already subtly shifting, packing up their toolboxes while they wait to be dismissed. They get paid for showing, whether they showed for nothing or not. And nothing is all that's going to happen until the backhoe breaks ground. Luke doesn't know anything about flipping houses, but he thinks it should involve significantly fewer guns than what their client usually brings to meetings. He's not, Luke thinks, the kind of guy who'll be happy if the deadline can't be met.

Joe turns to Luke in desperation. "You know I wouldn't ask…"

"I know," Luke mutters. He strips off his gloves, showing them in his waistband at his hip and cracks his knuckles.

This is it, everything he tries to avoid these days. Don't stand out. Don't make a scene. Don't let them know who you really are. But Joe's done more for him than Luke deserves. So, he crouches down in the grass and lays his hands, palm down, flat against the ground. The ice is cold enough to burn his skin. Luke can feel the microwaves inside him starting to pulse, surging towards the cold in a rush of self-preservation before frostbite can take hold.

"You should stand back," he says, but no one listens.

"Stand back!" Joe bellows.

Everyone pays attention when the foreman talks. The people who have come to ogle them fall quiet. The crew back off, muttering obscene things from a safe distance away.

"You good?" Joe asks.

"Yeah. All good."

It only takes a little concentration, and his ability is _there_, like he hasn't shut it away for months on end and tried to pretend it isn't part of him. The air hums red and the ice begins to melt. Under Luke's hands, the ground seems softer already. He presses down with the tips of his fingers, but hits ice again before the soil has caked beneath his nails. More power; more microwaves; more, unending silence from a bunch of guys who've always got a smartass thing to say. Eventually, the dirt grows soggy under Luke's fingers, and the grass drips with melted frost.

Luke stands and dusts off his knees, fumbling to pull his gloves back on as if a thin strip of fabric is all the shield he needs against the distrust in the eyes of the men around him.

"Right!" Joe hollers. "The ground's defrosted. Everyone back to work."

"Thanks a lot, Campbell, you fucking freak!" seems to be the general consensus.

***

There's a bar two blocks from Luke's apartment. It's quiet and seedy, smelling like stale cigarettes, old piss and sour beer. One or two alcoholics are there round the clock, propping up the bar. Toronto has nicer establishments, but Luke's found he gets more shit with his new ID and the helix symbol that marks him as evolved, than he ever did with the crappy fake that said his name was 'Abraham', born in 1974. So, he sticks to where he's on nodding terms with the barman, and as long as he pays up, the bouncer doesn't hassle him. It's no great loss; cheap beer tastes watered down no matter where you park your ass to drink it.

He settles into his regular booth, huddled in a dark corner as he nurses a drink. His muscles ache and his feet are tired, but that's the price of a hard day's work. He glances up sharply when a glass is set down in front of him, ice tinkling against the rim.

"Hello, Luke," a deep voice says, still so familiar after so many years apart. Sylar pushes the glass towards him with two fingers, and that smirk that haunts Luke's nightmares spreads across his face.

Luke has imagined this moment more times than he cares to admit. In the first few days and weeks and months after Sylar left him, he'd play over every scenario, no matter how implausible, where they might meet again. Luke saw himself angry, nuking Sylar before he could get a word in edgewise; he saw himself aloof, impervious to Sylar's taunts; he saw himself falling down at Sylar's feet and begging to be taken back. Yet, now, he does the one thing he never imagined himself capable of. Luke curls his fingers around the proffered glass and coolly says, "Hi."

Sylar arches a single eyebrow, thick and black and questioning. Luke hates that at twenty-one his chest feels tight with fucking _pride_ for impressing Sylar the way his seventeen year old self never could. The only person Luke hates more than who he is is who he was and he doesn't need Sylar here dredging up a past it's taken him so long to bury.

"Canada, eh?" Sylar deadpans.

Luke leans back in his seat, squaring his shoulders as he looks Sylar up and down. Regeneration doesn't really sink in when you're a teen; Luke thought himself invincible, then, anyway. But now, when Luke knows his own face his thinner and his muscles leaner, it's like looking back in time to see Sylar completely unchanged. He half expects to catch his own reflection in the glass behind the bar and see himself a dumb, punk kid again, sneering at the world.

"Ripping off old ladies?" Sylar asks.

Luke laughs despite himself. "Not right now, no. You?"

Sylar is still for a moment, gazing at Luke with a critical, considering eye. Luke's throat burns as he takes a gulp of the whisky set before him. Suddenly, he feels the almost-forgotten tug of telekinetic hands at his shoulders. Sylar curls two fingers and jerks Luke towards himself until they're hunched low over the table, heads huddled together.

Conspiratorially, Sylar whispers, "See the bartender?"

"Yeah," Luke breathes.

"Redistributing the grime on these glasses with that filthy rag of his isn't his only skill. He can make ice," he says, rattling Luke's glass, "with the tips of his fingers."

The invisible hold relaxes and Luke leans back once more, softly chuckling at Sylar's expense. How could he and the world have changed so much, and Sylar not changed at all?

"Still doing that thing, then? That, uh… _collecting_ thing?"

"Looks like it." Sylar shrugs.

"I would have thought…" He hesitates at the warning flash in Sylar's eyes. But, there's enough seventeen year old Luke left in twenty-one year old Luke to want to push Sylar's buttons. "I would have thought maybe you'd have a new objective by now?"

Sylar scowls and Luke snorts. "I mean, come on, dude. It's been… what? Four years? Five years?"

"Four years, eight months, two weeks and five days."

Luke swallows dryly, because if Sylar's still clinging to the same old objective, he hasn't lost his talent for making Luke uncomfortable when he wants to, either. "You gonna do hours and minutes, too?"

"I could."

"Yeah, well, whatever man. What're you really doing here, anyway? Can't find enough fresh meat in the good ol' U S of A?"

Sylar pops the olive from his martini into his mouth, turning the cocktail stick between his fingers. Eventually he simply shrugs.

"I needed a change. Besides," he adds, lowering his voice, "where's the challenge when everyone's walking around, using their abilities willy-nilly in broad daylight?"

"Less of a challenge up here," Luke counters.

"For now, perhaps."

Sylar gives Luke a cryptic smile. Suddenly, Luke wants out like he never wanted out when he was younger, smart enough to see the signs for danger but dumb enough think they really read adventure. Luke's not stupid, whatever anyone else might think. He reads the papers while he waits for the bus to work and he listens to the eleven-o-clock news every night. He knows about the right wing splinter groups calling for segregation and about the bill that's being pushed through Parliament by people scared of only being ordinary, the one that's going to roll back Canada's open-arms policy re: the world's evolved.

He's heard about the lynch mobs just south of the border, and the vigilante justice that filled the gap when US Homeland Security deemed specials no longer a threat. He's read about the hate crimes where the victim's the one to stand trial; self-defence is not an excuse to use an ability on an unevolved human, or so the Supreme Court says. Everyone knows the Chief Justice of Canada is a bent normal with half the Cabinet in his pocket and a stick up his ass about specials. Human rights groups, or at least ones who think those with abilities are human too, are dismissing the ruling as unconstitutional while a militant third-party on a 'Take Back Canada for Real Canadians' platform is gaining ground. Their number one campaign promise is to institute a death penalty for all incarcerated evolved peoples.

If Sylar's crossed the border just to stir the pot, Luke doesn't want to know. He stands to leave but Sylar's hand covers his on the sticky table. All these years of independence, and Luke still sits like Pavlov's dog, wagging his tail while he waits to be shocked.

"Oh Luke," he chides. "You can't leave yet. We've barely caught up."

"I don't want to catch up," Luke hisses. For the first time in years, he lashes out in anger with his ability. Sylar's hand snaps back, his fried skin regenerating while the stench of burnt flesh lingers in the air.

He clucks his tongue. "Naughty, naughty. If I wasn't so forgiving, a stunt like that could land you in Millhaven."

Luke's sick to his stomach with the knowledge that Sylar's right. He looks around the room, checking to see if anyone noticed. The lushes at the bar aren't staring at anything but the bottom of their glasses and the bartender knows better to than to stick his nose anywhere uninvited. Luke exhales a long sigh of relief.

"So, tell me, Luke… Four years, eight months, two weeks, and five days, and, there hasn't been a lick of trouble in Toronto. Have you really gone straight?" Sylar looks at his healed palm and slowly clenches and relaxes his fist. "Or are you just better at hiding the bodies, hm?"

"I'm trying to make something for myself! Something that doesn't include _you_!" Luke slaps his hands on the table and now people are looking, even the drunks who can't stand on their own have turned to watch the show but Luke doesn't care. "I've got a good life, here; an honest life and I don't need you fucking things up."

Luke steels himself because if his memories of Sylar are accurate, then mouthing off like that will have him flying through the air at any second, crashing through the bar, no doubt, until he's pinned bleeding to a wall. He wonders if this time Sylar will take his ability when he's done stealing the barman's. But, Sylar only laughs.

He throws his head back and _cackles_, like Luke's told the dirtiest joke he's ever heard, and when people turn to look this time, it's Sylar that they're looking at, and the way he's clutching his sides. Luke flushes a deep, hot red, unsure how Sylar can still make him feel so small and insignificant, how in four years of slurs and barbs, no one's been able to humiliate him like Sylar can with just a look.

"Liar," Sylar snorts through his giggles.

Luke opens his mouth to protest that Sylar's lie-detecting ability must be on the fritz because he's never been more serious in his life, when Sylar's laughter abruptly stops and he says with deathly calm, "I told you that I'm going to murder that man behind the bar. A man that you know. A man that's done you no wrong. Someone living an _honest_ life would have tried to stop me, or at the very least excused themselves to go to the john and call 911. Think about that, Luke."

Luke downs the rest of the whisky as Sylar tosses a few bills on the table. Sylar's mind holds him in his seat until Sylar's long gone out the door.

***

The winter air is frigid, the cold burning Luke's cheeks and numbing the tip of his nose where it peeks above the heavy canvas collar of his coat. Overnight the excavation has frozen through. It's up to Luke to nuke the earth, but no one thanks him for it. It's too easy now to do this. The gloves slide from his hands like they were never meant to be there and the wind whips away the crude jeers of those who stand across the site, huddled together as they judge him; cowardice in numbers. And as he heats the ground, barely bending over now, no need to crouch when the microwaves pulse from him, hotter and broader than before, the air fogs all around them, oddly humid in the biting cold. It's easy, _too easy_, to push out more than is needed and when Luke's done, the bottom of the hole they've dug is awash with a slush of mud and ice they all have to pitch in to bail out.

"Fucking mutant faggot," someone mutters in Luke's direction. "This is why we don't want your kind doing an honest man's work."

And it's hard, _too hard_, for Luke to curl his hand into a fist and not show the flat of his palm like he's itching to. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and even in the crisp, winter morning, Luke's running too hot, skin tight and body thrumming with energy that aches to be released. He kicks the ground and turns on his heel, the pound of blood in his ears drowning out the hissed slurs that follow his retreat.

He stomps into the makeshift break room, a lean-to cabin of hastily slapped together plasterboard and corrugated iron. The men within it scramble out before Luke gets too close. No one wants to find out the hard way if powers are catching.

Luke slaps both hands around the industrial coffee pot, barely flinching as the hot metal sears his skin and he funnels all his anger into a sudden, single pulse that leaves bright metallic sparks shooting all around him and the coffee bubbling over. He yanks his hands away before they scald and watches the volcanic eruption with sullen satisfaction. When it's done, Luke grabs a newspaper from the rickety table in the corner and throws it down to soak up the coffee slick that stains the linoleum floor. He watches as the ink bleeds across the pages and the paper turns a yellowing, sickly brown. And it's only when the faces in the front page photograph have blurred beyond all recognition that Luke's calm enough to read the headline that's been left out for him to find:

_59 YR OLD HIGHSCHOOL TEACHER IN WINNIPEG BRUTALLY BEATEN TO DEATH WHEN OUTED AS A 'SPECIAL'._

***

Luke exits the subway station opposite the bar. Standing in the doorway, the bouncer stubs out a cigarette with his heel and huffs hot breath on his hands to warm them. There're no blood stains on the front step or police tape cordoning off the area; whatever move Sylar's going to make, there's still time to cut him off. Luke stands at the crosswalk, looking left and right and left again, waiting for that moment when his nerves will steel.

The bouncer growls at him as he tramps the site's mud across the sticky floors.

Luke sits at the bar, worn gloves placed neatly at his elbow. The stool is high and his legs swing, the toes of his work books barely brushing the ground. Luke fiddles with a napkin, tearing it into hundreds of little squares.

"The usual?" the bartender asks.

Luke nods a 'yes', his throat too dry to speak. Condensation wets his palms as he plays the beer bottle between his hands. He casts a nervous look around the bar, it's early still, only just gone five thirty and the after work crowd, such as it is in this neighbourhood, has yet to show. The only other customer in the place is slumped in a corner booth, dozing off an afternoon bender. The bartender lazily shines a glass. Luke clears his throat, still not sure of what to say.

"Lovers' spat?"

"Excuse me?" Luke stutters.

The bartender jerks his head in the direction of Luke's usual booth, and looks at Luke knowingly. "The guy from yesterday? Tall, dark, has an ass to die for? I mean, it's none of my business but come on, when a guy turns up for a drink two hours earlier than usual, it means there's trouble at home."

Luke's not sure what knocks him off guard more, the bartender's assumption that he and Sylar are lovers (_does it still show? Four years on, can it still be so obvious to someone who doesn't know them?_) or that he's so openly broached the subject. There's enough bigotry to go around and just because evolved peoples are the new bottom rung of the ladder doesn't mean the boots of the white, straight and narrow minded have stopped treading on those 'normals' who don't quite fit. Implying a stranger in a bar is gay is no safer in 2011 than it was in 2009.

Luke shakes off his confusion and grabs the bartender's hand in his own; his fingertips are blue with cold and his skin is clammy where Luke's is fever-hot. "Is he here? That guy? Have you seen him?"

"Whoa!" the bartender holds up his hands. "I never pegged you for the jealous type! No, he isn't here. Haven't seen him since yesterday. Calm down."

There's an awkward moment and then, Luke sits back.

"Sorry," he mumbles. The bartender looks over Luke's shoulder and nods. In the reflection of the glass behind the bar, Luke can see the bouncer relax back against the doorframe.

And if Luke's going to warn him, then now's the time to do it, before the bar is lined with people who want nothing but to forget and the bartender writes off Luke's words as those of another drunken fool who won't remember anything in the morning. For, what is Luke to he? A shared ability, _a shared curse_, doesn't make them brothers, not even brothers in arms. Even if he's believed, a head start won't do much against Sylar. And, when this guy turns up with his scalp sliced off and minus a brain, it won't be Sylar the police string up, but the weird guy who was here the day before, babbling about murder.

The days when Luke would gladly pay for Sylar's crimes have long since passed.

He finishes his beer and he pays his tab. He walks out the bar and he doesn't look back.

***

Luke finds Sylar sprawled out, in his socked feet, on Luke's sofa, a diet soda in one hand and the remote in the other. He doesn't look up when Luke walks in and Luke only barely falters when he spots him.

"Hi," Luke says coolly.

"Hi."

Sylar shuts off the TV and tosses the remote at the coffee table. It skitters across the glass top, its fall buffeted by the newspaper clippings scattered all around. It takes Luke a moment to recognise the contents of the box he keeps hidden beneath his bed. He lunges towards Sylar but telekinetic forces root him to the spot.

"That's mine," he grits.

"But it's all about me," Sylar purrs as he stands, slinking over to Luke and sidling up behind him. Luke's hands begin to glow in warning, but Sylar only clicks his tongue.

"Careful now, Luke. You don't want to burn down your apartment. Although… a little fire damage might spruce the place up."

"There's nothing wrong with my apartment!"

"No, I suppose a dump like this is the best you can afford doing what you do."

"There's nothing wrong with what I do! I have an honest job which is more than you've ever done with your life!"

"Luke, please," Sylar scoffs. "There's nothing honest about your life. You're hiding from what you are, trying to pass as some backwards Neanderthal 'normal' as if sweat and dirt can erase what you've done."

Luke trembles with rage and he tries to speak, to shout Sylar down and tell him that he's wrong but there's a telekinetic pressure on his windpipe and Luke's lips are clamped shut for him. Sylar presses his nose behind Luke's ear, nuzzling in the soft hair there and inhaling deeply. His front is flush to Luke's immobile back, one arm hooked loosely around Luke's waist. Sylar's hand rests on his stomach, pressing gently to muscle firmed by manual labour as if trying to feel the maelstrom of microwaves being stoked in Luke's core. The air is heating up around them with the burning, red hot glow from Luke's useless, outstretched hands. Sweat slicks Luke's skin and to his disgust he swears he can feel the tip of Sylar's tongue brush against his neck, tasting the salt of his skin.

With a lazy curl of his fingers, Sylar summons the yellowing newspaper clippings strewn across the coffee table. They dance on invisible strings in front of Luke's face and he finds that there are forces holding open his eyes, stopping him from looking away:

_NEW JERSEY TEEN MISSING AFTER MOTHER HELD HOSTAGE AND SOLDIER KILLED_

_DECORATED SOLDIER DEAD IN THE 'MOST BIZARRE' HOMICIDE THE NEW JERSEY CORONOR'S OFFICE HAS EVER SEEN_

_TEEN ABDUCTED FROM HOME BY HIGHLY DANGEROUS CRIMINAL_

"And the worst part is that the only person you're fooling is yourself," Sylar says with an exasperated sigh, plucking at Luke's mud stained work clothes and gesturing around the room. "I let you live because you're special. You're better than this."

"Wake up, Sylar! The world has changed! There is no _special_," Luke spits as the pressure on his throat is lifted. "Every second person you meet has an ability and no one's afraid to use them. Not anymore."

"Oh, but, Luke," Sylar purrs, holding Luke a little tighter as his hot breath tickles Luke's ear, "that's not true; you're afraid."

Suddenly, Luke's released from the bonds that hold him and he does the one thing that he's tried to cure himself of in the years since he last saw Sylar: he acts without thinking. Luke twists in Sylar's embrace and in a blind rage, slams his palms against Sylar's chest, all the built up microwaves erupting out and nuking him, over and over. Luke's killing him, and killing him again and again and again as Sylar heals. Sylar stumbles backwards and Luke surges forwards, unrelenting. They topple to the floor, hard, grunting through gritted teeth. Sylar's dying from the inside out; blood seeps from behind his eyes and trickles from his ears. The corners of his mouth are slick and crimson, and underneath his hands, Luke can feel Sylar's innards frying, separated from him by only the wall of Sylar's sternum. The air is rank with the fetid smell of charbroiled flesh and the chemical burn of superheated fabric. Sylar's shirt melts and fuses to skin that bubbles and splits, the whole rancid casing slaked away as new, pink skin takes its place.

Luke finds he doesn't give a shit that none of this will last, that his outburst will only be as long as Sylar tolerates it and that in the end Sylar will stand up, brush himself off and leave again, because right here and right now, Luke is making Sylar _hurt_. And that's payback that's been four years, eight months, two weeks, and _six_ days coming.

To Luke's surprise, and maybe Sylar's too, it's Luke who tires of battle first.

Sylar's on his back, mostly dead and quickly regenerating. Luke's on his knees, straddling Sylar's hips, one hand flat to Sylar's stomach and the other over his heart. Sylar's shirt has long since been scorched away to nothing and their skin is damp with sweat where they touch. The microwaves slow to a gentle ebb and then, even Luke's strength for that is sapped. He slumps forward, heaving ragged breaths and he finds that, at twenty-one, his forehead still notches as perfectly to the crook of Sylar's neck as it did at seventeen.

"Asshole," Luke mutters.

Sylar only laughs, his hand coming up to stroke over the back of Luke's flushed neck and ruffle through his hair. Half-heartedly, Luke tries to shrug him off, bracing himself for whatever he's got coming; Sylar's caresses have always been tempered with a slap. But all Sylar does is sling one arm around Luke's waist and draw him down nearer, his lips brushing over Luke's temple, pressing to the tiny scar that Sylar had left behind.

"You've missed that, haven't you? Nuking people who piss you off?"

"No," Luke gasps against Sylar's skin.

"Liar," Sylar murmurs mildly. He cups the back of Luke's head and kisses him soundly. Luke bites at Sylar's mouth, hard, tearing his bottom lip. Sylar simply raises one eyebrow and licks the wound as it heals. He kisses Luke harder, shoving his tongue between Luke's teeth until all either can taste is the sharp, copper tang of blood. He pushes at Luke's rain- and sweat-stained jacket, tearing it down his arms and flinging it aside.

"You're better than that," he growls, nimble fingers yanking open the buttons of Luke's thick flannel work shirt. "So much better."

"No," Luke whines, not really sure if he's disagreeing or asking Sylar to stop. But Sylar only rolls them over so that the threadbare carpet scratches Luke's bare back and Sylar's chest hair scratches his front. And, when Sylar kisses down his jaw and lower, mapping out the new hard planes where Sylar left Luke weak and soft before, Luke doesn't say no again, no matter how much he knows he should.

Sylar's tugging at his bootlaces and peeling off his socks, frowning at the mud caked hems of Luke's winter trousers before ridding him of those too. "So special."

Then, he kisses a path up one leg and buries his face in Luke's crotch, licking and sucking at the fabric of Luke's boxers. Luke's making a low, whining sound in the back of his throat. He's twisting his hips, caught between trying to get away and trying to press himself nearer. Sylar drags Luke's underwear down and in one swift movement, takes his cock to the back of his throat. Luke cries out Sylar's name, his eyes scrunched shut with a conflicted mix of pleasure and shame. As his fingers thread through Sylar's hair, Luke hates that four years on, he can't drag himself away from his seventeen year old self's masturbatory fantasy come to life.

When Luke summons the strength to look down at Sylar, he finds Sylar staring intently up at him. He pulls off Luke's dick with a wet, messy pop. A glistening string of spit and pre-come hangs between Sylar's lips and the head of Luke's cock, broken only when Sylar licks his lips. "You're too special for this, Luke."

It should be too little, too late; Sylar on his knees with only eyes for Luke is what Luke wanted then, not what he wants now but his cock still twitches and his hips still lift to nudge his erection against Sylar's chin. Luke's chest is warm with want and his face is flushed from the attention. Even his ability, thrumming in his gut, twinned with the anger Luke can't quite shake, feels better than it should.

"No," he says weakly, but Sylar pulls him up by the hand and walks Luke backwards towards his bedroom.

The room is a mess where Sylar has pried. The bed is pulled away from the wall and stands askew; the floorboard Sylar yanked up to find Luke's secrets is leaning against the wall. Sylar's kisses muffle Luke's attempted protest.

"So special," Sylar intones as he pushes Luke down and kneels between his legs, dropping kisses to Luke's forehead, the tip of his nose and the cleft of his chin.

Luke sits with his head bowed and, without breaking his gaze away from Luke, Sylar takes Luke's hand in his own and brings it to his lips. His tongue drags over the rough, calloused skin where Luke's fingers meet his palm, and at the knot on the side of his thumb, where hammers and handsaws have rubbed as Luke tried to find their balance. Sylar licks and licks, tender and thorough and unrelenting, as if he can kiss away the pain of years of manual labour.

"You're so much better than this, Luke."

But, Luke knows that isn't true. He deserves much worse than the constant pain in his back from heavy lifting and chapped skin from the winter wind. He lives his life waiting for the day when someone will see him for the monster he really is and it all comes crashing down around him. His palm starts to glow and he can feel the heat trapped between them, flushing Sylar's skin and singeing his stubble. Yet, Sylar doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, pressing his cheek to the cradle of Luke's hand even as Luke slowly fries his flesh. He doesn't flinch though Luke knows it has to hurt.

"Too special for this crappy place and this crappy life."

Luke pulls his hand away and shuts his eyes against the sudden, hot tears that threaten to spill. His chest feels tight and his throat too. He lies down on the bed and spreads his legs to let Sylar do what he will. Luke can hear the soft slide of a drawer being opened and then there are slick, thick fingers stroking between his thighs. Luke draws his knees to his chest and he throws an arm over his face, biting at the inside of his elbow as he waits for the sharp, hard thrust he remembers all too vividly. But instead, Sylar caresses him gently. One slippery finger works its way tenderly inside, stretching and stroking and slowly twisting until Luke is thrusting back against Sylar's hand and another finger slides in beside it.

It seems like hours as Sylar teases Luke open, more careful than he needs to be, more careful than Luke ever thought he could be. And to Luke, it's far worse than the roughest fuck they ever had when he was stupid, seventeen and virginal. He's choking back sobs and his cheeks are wet where he can't stop himself from crying. He tries to twist onto to his stomach, to get up on his hands and knees and smother himself in the pillows, but Sylar's grip on his hip prevents him from turning away.

Sylar makes love to him slowly, with lazy, tender thrusts as he laps away the tears from the corners of Luke's eyes. Over and over, he whispers Luke's name, until Luke's hanging on the brink of orgasm and his lips are hovering over Luke's. And when Luke cants up off the pillows, to finally close the gap between their mouths, hating himself for the whimpered "_Sylar_" he can't hold back as he does, that's when Luke comes, spilling semen over Sylar's fist.

Sylar comes with a groan; Luke has to swallow back the bile that rises in his throat.

"Are you happy here, Luke?" he asks as he peppers breathless kisses to Luke's sex-pink skin.

"_Yes_," Luke wails. Sylar shakes his head sadly, tying off the condom and tossing it aside.

"Liar," he breathes as he swaddles Luke in the sheets and pulls him to his chest. "But that's okay. I'm here now, Luke. You don't need to be afraid anymore."

In Sylar's arms, Luke goes cold with fear.

When Luke wakes, he's all alone; the tangled sheets and dried come on his belly are the only sign that Sylar has been there. Luke barely makes it to the bathroom before he pukes.

***

Two days on the site and the stench from the chemical toilets already leaves Luke gagging. He shudders in disgust as he latches the door behind him and tries not to look at the floor while he takes a piss. Luke winces as he zips himself up; he's got that subtle ache deep in his gut that always comes from being fucked, no matter how gently. He wants to lose himself in the mind numbing push and pull of physical labour, but he's reminded by the throb of muscles well-used every time he sits or stretches or bends to help move the iron girders they're riveting into place.

Luke washes his hands and when he finds the paper towel dispenser already empty, he doesn't pause to make a conscious choice before a soft burst of microwaves leaves his skin steaming dry. He presses his warm hands under his shirt and against his belly, letting the heat ease the cramp inside him. When he pulls on his work gloves, supple from years of wear, they suddenly feel too hot, too tight and too constricting in a way they never were before.

Still fiddling with his gloves and gritting his teeth against the memories of the night before, Luke walks straight into two guys loitering outside the Porta-Potty. Before he can even mumble an apology, Luke's shoved roughly back.

"Don't touch me, shithead!"

Luke barely has time to register the insult before the other guy is cracking him across the jaw and following it up with a punch to Luke's middle. He staggers backwards and stumbles against the plastic wall of the toilet. There's a hollow thud as Luke doubles over in the mud.

"Faggot!" one yells in his ear, while the other spits, "Freak!"

"I thought I told you we don't want your kind working in this crew!" The words are punctuated with another blow and Luke spits blood. "But you can't take a hint, can you?"

"Fuck you!" Luke growls, lashing out as best he can with his fists, but it's two to one and they've caught him by surprise; Luke's kicked and punched and kicked some more until his ribs are aching and every ragged breath leaves his chest burning.

From the corner of his eye, Luke sees one of the bastards take a hammer from his tool belt. Luke's hands heat so fast and so intensely that his gloves incinerate in an instant.

The assholes take one step back but brandish their hammers and laugh. "Go on, you little piece of mutant shit. You'll hang if you even try it."

Luke swallows dryly and tries to think, but the blood is pounding too loudly in his ears and adrenaline is making microwaves jump from his palms in spurts he can't quite control. Worst of all, Luke knows they're right; no matter what happens here today, Luke's the one who'll be paying with his life.

"Hey!" Joe suddenly calls from across the lot. By the time he's jogged over to them, hammers are back in tool belts and Luke's hands are lightly glowing fists at his sides. Joe grabs Luke by the chin and turns his head to better inspect the black eye and split lip. Luke clenches his jaw as over Joe's shoulder he watches the other guys flip them the bird.

"You'll be fine," Joe growls, laying one hand on Luke's shoulder to stop him from walking away. He looks the other guys up and down, and after a tense pause, simply says, "Get back to work."

***

Luke limps into his apartment when it's dark. Joe sent him to walk it off but the sun has set and Luke's no closer to knowing what to do. He's bruised, black and blue all over, with a heavy weight in his gut at the knowledge that this is the least of what he will suffer.

Luke's so caught up in his thoughts that it takes a moment for the low, groaning sound echoing around the room to register.

"Sylar!" Luke hisses.

"I'm not in the mood for playing games," he calls as he storms towards the noise. Behind him, microwaves trail in a hazy, red line.

"Good," Sylar says as he turns to greet him. "Neither am I."

Three chairs face Luke, a man beaten, bound and gagged in each. Luke recognises the swollen faces of the two jackasses that tried to beat him up and Joe.

"Sylar, what the hell!?"

Luke rushes forward to cut them free but he's lifted by invisible hands and slammed against the bedroom wall. Pens and scissors and shards of a shattered mirror fly towards him as Luke flinches. With precision that Luke can scarcely comprehend, Sylar impales Luke's clothes, not him, and leaves him pinned and hanging from the wall by dozens of objects stabbed through his shirt and jeans.

"What are you doing?" Luke cries.

"An eye for an eye," Sylar says tapping his fingers to the bruised skin under the eye of the guy who'd given Luke his shiner.

"This isn't right!"

Sylar turns to look at him, staring at him until Luke's forced to look away.

"No," Sylar murmurs. "No, it isn't. But it will be." He rubs one hand soothingly over Luke's belly.

"Sylar, don't," he pleads.

"Don't what?" Sylar lifts an eyebrow, smirking like he knows full well what Luke means.

"This! Whatever this is, don't. Just let them go."

"Oh, now, Luke," Sylar says with a mock-pout, "it's far too late for that."

Luke wants to shut his eyes to block out the men that struggle and scream through their gags. But he can't; he's forced to watch as tears streak down Joe's face. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat. One guy's crotch is wet through where he pissed himself. At seventeen, Luke might have laughed, but now he only wants to get away.

"Why are you doing this?"

"For you." Sylar presses an obscenely gentle kiss to the corner of Luke's lips. "To keep you _honest_."

Luke spits at Sylar because it's all that he can do with his outstretched hands pulsing microwaves uselessly at his sides. Sylar wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, glaring dangerously at Luke. "You always did have a problem with the truth," he snarls.

The hostages cower as Sylar strides towards them. He grabs the man in the middle by his hair and yanks his head back. Luke wracks his brain to remember the name of a man who is about to die because of him but comes up blank. Sylar curls on finger under the rag that stops the guy's mouth, wrapped around his face and bound at the back of his head.

"I'm going to take this off," Sylar whispers slowly in his ear. "And when I do, you're going to tell young Luke exactly how well he's passing for a 'normal'. Capisce?"

For a moment, the guy just keeps sobbing but Sylar tugs violently at the gag and then, he's nodding frantically. Under Sylar's fingers the rag splits and he pulls it away.

Almost immediately, the guy screams.

Sylar looks at Luke and rolls his eyes. With one cruel swipe of his hand, the man's tongue is torn from his mouth. Blood streams down his chin as Sylar flings his flesh across the room. On either side of him, the other men look on in dumbstruck terror as Sylar deftly slits his throat.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Luke wails, twisting as he tries to free himself from the wall. Blood gurgles from the dead man's throat and leaves a thick, black slick seeping into the carpet at his feet.

"Don't make me gag you too," Sylar says coldly.

With a blood spattered hand, Sylar grabs the other guy by the scruff of his neck. Sylar sneers as a fresh stream of piss trickles down the poor bastard's leg. "Charming."

"Here's the deal," Sylar growls. "I take off the gag. You don't scream, or you end up like your buddy, okay?"

The guy nods, panting through his nose. Again, Sylar cuts the gag and this time, the guy spits it out, breathing so hard that Luke thinks he's close to hyperventilating.

"Uh uh," Sylar says with a shake of his head. He holds up two threatening fingers and the hostage's eyes fly wide in fear. He gulps down great mouthfuls of air and tries to quiet his breath.

"Good." Sylar flashes them all a wicked smile. "Now, that wasn't so hard."

Sylar steps towards Luke again and rests his hand casually on Luke's hip. Luke can see Joe's hands clench into fists and he prays harder than he ever has before that Joe doesn't try something stupid. _It'll be okay,_ he mouths in Joe's direction but they both know that that's a lie.

"You know my friend here?" Sylar's fingers curl, digging painfully into the soft flesh of Luke's side.

"Yeah," the man rasps.

"Of course you do." Sylar grabs Luke by the jaw and runs his thumb over Luke's split lip. "You gave him this, didn't you?"

The man's nostrils flare in terror and he says nothing for fear of saying something wrong. Then, as Luke watches, an invisible hand slaps him across the face, hard enough to tear his lip worse than Luke's.

"Didn't you?" Sylar demands.

"Yes," the man sobs. "Yes, but I'm sorry. Please! Please don't do this."

"Liar, liar, liar," Sylar hisses. "You're not sorry at all."

Trembling, he's caught between shaking his head and nodding it, tears streaming down his face and mingling with the blood trickling down his chin. "_Please_."

"Mutant. Faggot. Freak," Sylar spits. "We don't want your kind around here. That's what you said, isn't it?"

He bows his head, whimpering, "Yes," his shoulders shaking as he weeps.

"And what were you going to do to him?"

"Nothing! Rough him up, that's all."

The sickening crunch of bone reverberates around the room as Sylar snaps his legs, one by one. He backhands the broken man across the face. "I asked you what you were going to do to him?"

"Hit him," he says through his tears. "With the hammer, on the back of his head. They say it's the only way to kill a mutant."

"And you thought you'd get away with that?"

"We were gonna sink the body in the concrete, in the foundations. Nobody's gonna miss a freak and if someone saw, they wouldn't squeal. Everyone hated him, wanted him gone. Mutants bring trouble and a bunch of guys were gonna quit if something wasn't done." And even moments from death, he has enough hate in him to glare at Luke in disgust. "Guys with families. _Normal_, hardworking guys who deserve a job. Guys that you lied to," he suddenly yells, "when you tried to pass, you fucking faggot."

"Enough," Sylar says and breaks his neck.

He fists his hand in the front of Luke's shirt and yanks him down from the wall, scissors and mirror shards flying every which way. Luke lands hard and stumbles, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he skids on the blood soaked floor. Telekinetic hands steady him before he tumbles into the corpses.

Sylar has one hand under Joe's chin, tilting up his tear damp face for Luke to see. It takes all of Luke's self-control to stop himself from lunging at Sylar like he wants to. However fast Luke can be, Sylar's faster.

"I know what you're thinking, Luke."

"I doubt it," Luke spits.

Sylar snorts a laugh and pats Joe lightly on the cheek. "You're thinking, 'So what?' They're just two jackasses and now they're dead. Who cares, right?"

Luke shifts nervously from foot to foot and says nothing.

"You've gotta be safe now, because good, old Joe, _faithful Joe_, he'd never do anything like that. Right?"

"Right," Luke grunts. Joe looks desperately from Luke to Sylar to Luke again and shakes his head.

"I mean, he knows you killed a guy and he's stood by you all the same."

Joe's eyes go wider still and he stares at Luke, confused. Luke wraps his arms around himself and finds he can't meet Joe's gaze.

"Oh, that's right…" Sylar says. "You neglected to mention that little tidbit from your past when you were letting Joe get you a job and this lovely apartment, when he was saving your ass from guys who probably had the right idea."

"No…" Luke wails.

"No? You mean, he did know?" Sylar grabs Joe's chin roughly again and jerks his head up. Tears are coursing down his face and leave Sylar's fingers damp. "It doesn't _look_ like he knew."

"No!" Luke yells. "He doesn't know, didn't know. But it doesn't matter. That's not who I am anymore, Sylar. Stop trying to make me be like you!"

He rushes forward and shoulders Sylar out the way. Luke doesn't stop to think _why_ when Sylar lets him. He fumbles with the knots that bind Joe's arms to the chair, but they're tied too tight for Luke to undo them. He snatches a broken shard of mirror and uses the jagged edge to saw through the rope, cutting his own palm more than he makes a dent on what's keeping Joe in place. Eventually, he throws the glass from him with a grunt, ignoring Sylar's hollow laugh and tugs at the knot on the gag instead.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry," over and over again like a prayer. "I'm sorry."

Luke pulls the rag from Joe's mouth and hugs the man who's done more for him than his real family and Sylar combined. "I'm sorry," he sobs.

"It's okay," Joe soothes through his own tears.

"Liar," Sylar says mildly, but Luke tries to ignore him.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I'm sorry, I would have told you one day—"

"Liar."

"That doesn't matter now, Luke. Cut me free," Joe pleads. "Please. Let me go."

"Okay. Yeah, okay." Luke grabs the rag that was used to gag him and wraps it around his torn and bloody palm, taking up a different mirror shard to try the ropes again.

Leaning against the doorframe, Sylar clicks his tongue as Luke manages to cut one of Joe's arms loose. "You're smarter than this, Luke. Better than this."

"Shut up!" Luke snaps. "Everything's gonna be fine."

"Liar!"

"Don't listen to him, Luke. Let me go and everything will be fine. I won't tell, I swear," Joe sobs in desperation.

"Liar," Sylar hisses. "He's going to call the police the minute he sets foot outside this apartment—"

"No!"

"—and maybe you'll get away, now, Luke. But your face will be on every front page come morning and your name'll be the lead on the evening news. Where're you gonna go? What're you gonna do? You _know_ what they do to specials who use their abilities against 'normals'. You'll be lucky if you get the electric chair; vigilante justice can be so messy."

"Shut up!" Luke shouts, but he's crying now too, really crying and deep inside, he knows Sylar's right. Even if Joe isn't lying, nothing will ever be _fine_ between them again. The mirror shard falls from his hand and he sinks to his knees at the side of Joe's chair, not caring that he's sitting with his ass in a patch of slowly cooling blood. Luke folds his arms around himself and wipes his eyes on his sleeve. "I don't know! I don't know," he wails.

"Shhh," Sylar hums. A gentle hand strokes through Luke's hair and Sylar crouches down beside him. "I know you want to think that world has changed, Luke, but nothing's changed. People are still stupid, and hateful and ignorant, lashing out at anything that's not like them, anyone who's better than they will ever be."

Sylar's thumb brushes over Luke's cheek, wiping away his tears. From the corner of his eye, Luke can see Joe's mouth opening and closing wordlessly as Sylar holds his windpipe shut. "It doesn't have to be this way for you."

"No," Luke whimpers.

"_Yes_. You can put all this behind you."

"No," he breathes, shaking his head as more tears come.

"Let me take care of you, Luke," Sylar murmurs, petting his hair and kissing his cheeks, holding Luke in a close embrace when the last of Luke's resolve crumbles and he slumps into Sylar's arms, weeping.

"I can't…"

"You can. This is who you are, Luke. Stop running from it." Sylar takes Luke's hand in his own and presses Luke's palm to Joe's knee. "It's time to clean up the mess you've made."

"I'm sorry," Luke whispers. He flexes his fingers, wincing as Joe silently screams, and lets loose the biggest pulse of microwaves he's ever mustered. The seconds it takes for Joe to die, for his skin to sizzle and burst, his eyes to pop and his innards to putrefy, are worse punishment, Luke thinks, than anything an angry mob could mete out.

Luke turns to Sylar.

"I hate you," he hisses, tears streaking down his face.

"I know." Sylar takes him by the hand, nails digging into his skin when Luke tries to pull away. "Let's go."


End file.
